


booyah! (emphasis on the boo)

by lovelylogans



Series: 13 days of halloween [7]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: (stuck in a closet while anxious not specifically because of the closet), M/M, Multi, Recreational Drinking, Trapped In A Closet, absolute fucking disaster gays, claustrophobia maybe, homophobia mention, homophobic ghost, murder mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2021-01-03 03:08:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21172424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelylogans/pseuds/lovelylogans
Summary: “Iknow,”Virgil says, “I know, I know, but—but I basically haveproof,this time, all the other stuff seemed, y’know—creaking furniture and things not being exactly where I remember and whispers in the night, that kind of thing.”“Proof,” Logan sighs, and rolls his eyes. “All right. Whatproofis there.”“It locked me in a closet.”There’s a brief, thoughtful pause.“So, like, the ghost is homophobic?” Roman says.or: the boys try to be ghostbusters. they're not very good at it.





	booyah! (emphasis on the boo)

**Author's Note:**

> _TOUR GUIDE GARRETT: Now, I'm gonna tell you something a little spooky. The morning of October 25, 1894, Sir Aldridge awoke furious when his breakfast was not waiting for him. So, he called to his servants, but none of them responded. Why? Because, during the night, one by one they had each been stabbed to death in their sleep. It was later discovered that they were murdered by his eldest daughter, Gertrude Aldridge. Sir Aldridge once wrote in his diary, 'I know God makes no mistakes, but I believe he may have been drunk when he built Gertrude's personality.'_  
_-ghostbusters, 2016_
> 
> this is for the 13 days of halloween prompt over at @sanderssidescelebrations! today’s prompt is **ghost hunting!** i am essentially rewriting a premise i once wrote in an [old fic of mine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8422219), so. here we go. let’s see how my writing stacks up a couple years apart.

They’re all drunk on shitty wine for one of their intermittent wine-and-whine nights when Virgil brings up his haunted apartment. 

When Virgil says it, Logan heaves a massive sigh from where he’s got his head pillowed on Patton’s lap, where Patton’s playing with his hair—Logan swings between sleepy drunk and ranty, rambly drunk, and he’s landed on sleepy tonight—and grumbles, “Ghosts aren’t _real.”_

“Now, Logan, let’s hear him out,” Patton says. “Virgil is, after all, one of our best friends in the whole wide world who should be cherished and loved because he is one of the bestest little boys.”

Patton, on the other hand, solidly embodies the whole “cuddly-complimentary-drunk-girl-in-the-bathroom” stereotype.

“Yeah, yeah, I wanna hear this,” Roman says, from where he’s sprawled out on Virgil’s rug, grinning loose and easy, making Virgil’s stomach flip-flop. “You’ve been living here, what, a year, and you’re _just now_ talking about how it’s haunted?”

“I _know,”_ Virgil says, “I know, I know, but—but I basically have _proof,_ this time, all the other stuff seemed, y’know—creaking furniture and things not being exactly where I remember and whispers in the night, that kind of thing.”

“Proof,” Logan sighs, and rolls his eyes. “All right. What _proof_ is there.”

“It locked me in a closet.”

There’s a brief, thoughtful pause.

“So, like, the ghost is homophobic?” Roman says. Patton nearly snorts wine out of his nose as Virgil feels his face heat—well, even warmer than he already is, from the alcohol—and he sets down the novelty Thanos-glove-themed cup of wine with a thunk.

“I mean, _probably!”_ Virgil says heatedly. “If you look at, like, all of historic times—”

“Homophobia was fairly frequent, yes,” Logan says, musingly. “But it’s not as if you’ve particularly shown _off_ homosexual activity in this apartment.”

Roman starts laughing so hard he nearly falls off the couch, and Virgil fights the urge to chuck a pillow at either Logan or Roman.

“You didn’t have to _at him_ like that, L, oh my God,” Roman says, and snorts, giggling still, and Virgil wishes that it didn’t practically melt away all of Virgil’s irritation at him—it does heighten the embarrassment, though, because he’s been single _because_ he’s been hopelessly pining over Roman. 

Logan glances up at Patton, confused, and Patton explains, “It kind of sounded like you were saying there wasn’t much reason for a haunting because Virgil’s been single for so long, honeybear.”

“_Thanks,”_ Virgil grumbles. “All of you, great, thanks so much, I’m painfully single, we get it, can we get back to the ghost that’s bullying me into going back into the closet and managed to trap me there for two hours—”

“Two _hours?!”_ Roman exclaims. “You were stuck for two _hours_ and you didn’t, like, slam your body into it until it flew off its hinges or something?!”

“I _tried,_ but it wouldn’t budge,” Virgil says. “It swung open again after I, like, learned my lesson, or whatever, and then I spent all of last night not able to sleep and with all the lights on and now I’m wondering if I’m going crazy.”

“So _that’s_ why you called for a wine-and-whine night,” Patton says, which is mostly true. He’d been planning on calling one because he’s going grocery shopping sometime this week and he wanted to clear out the remaining dregs of his bottles of three-dollar wine _now_ before he goes and gets new, unopened bottles, but it’s been rushed up the line because Virgil’s hands won’t stop shaking and he can’t really look too closely at the closet that he’s got propped open through all the means he could think of, and sage burned, and he’d been researching the paranormal all day, which made him even _more_ anxious. So he just says—

“Yeah,” Virgil says. “Just in case something else happens.”

And nothing else does—well, Logan falls asleep pretty quickly after that, and Patton goes on a tooth-rottingly sweet ramble about how much he loves them all and how much better his life has been since they all came into it and how he thinks Logan is The One for him and he’s so grateful they’ve all been with him on this life journey, and Roman wraps an arm around Virgil’s shoulders and leans his cheek against Virgil’s hair and lets out this soft, content sigh that makes Virgil kind of absurdly happy—but ghost-wise, nothing happens.

At least, not until a couple weeks later.

They’re all at Virgil’s apartment again—this time, they’re all doing separate work time, Patton settled under Logan’s arm as Logan read a book and as Patton flipped through a notecard set, and Roman with a script strewn about the floor, Virgil taking notes on a reading he has to do—when there’s a loud noise. Virgil freezes.

There’s another noise—like someone slamming their fists against the floor. Like someone trapped underneath, trying to get out.

Roman glances up from his script. “What was that?”

“Gertrude,” Virgil says through a dry mouth.

“Gertrude?” Patton says, curious.

“The ghost.”

Logan scoffs.

“It’s not _funny,_ Logan, I’m being serious,” Virgil says, and decides _fuck it_ and then digs out his printed-off pages of research. “There used to be a manor here and this lady named Gertrude Aldridge apparently killed all the family’s servants and then her dad locked her in the basement to spare the family public humiliation and she _died down there_, so—“

Roman makes an interested noise, reaching for the folder, and Virgil hands it over. Roman’s a big fan of true crime and ghost stories and also Buzzfeed Unsolved, so he really probably should have roped Roman into this earlier. Also, ghost research wasn’t even the most pathetic excuse he’d tried to use in order to spend time with Roman alone, he _really_ should have used it.

“So you think _Gertrude_,” Logan says, voice dripping with disdain, “is going to... kill you.”

“Well, _now_ I am.”

Logan heaves a massive sigh, and sets aside his book. “Look, Virgil, I can understand that you are anxious, and I can understand the popular narrative of ghost stories offering a simple explanation for various noises and occurrences, though there are dozens more logical explanations for—”

He’s cut off by a distant, feminine howl of outrage.

Logan pauses, before he says, “Your neighbor.”

Logan’s book then proceeds to pick itself up and throw itself from his hands.

Logan looks on the verge of saying _still not a ghost,_ but Roman howls “holy SHIT!” before he can, nearly falling backward off the couch in his quest to scramble away, grabbing Virgil’s hand and tugging him back before planting himself in front of him, arms spread wide, like he’s _guarding_ Virgil, like he’s shielding him, and if Virgil wasn’t so scared shitless right now he’d think it was _noble_ or _sweet_ or _something,_ but as it is, Virgil’s legs are trembling underneath him and he distantly, hysterically, imagines himself swooning into Roman’s arms like some kind of southern belle_._

And then the floor starts rumbling, and then Roman grabs Virgil’s hand, and Patton yelps, and Logan grabs Patton—Logan shoves Patton down and rolls underneath Virgil’s dinner table—and Roman hauls Virgil closer to his bedroom, and before Virgil can say _wait, don’t—_

—the door swung shut behind them, and, in the dark, Roman said, “Ah.”

“We’re trapped,” Virgil said. “In my closet. _Again.”_

“Well,” Roman said, breath a warm puff against Virgil’s neck, “It’s_ my _first time being trapped in your closet.”

Virgil giggles, a bit hysterical because the fucking _ghost_ started shaking his whole apartment, and Roman huffs out a laugh, and Virgil can feel the hot air on his neck, and _wow_ that sure was a strange mix of emotions, adrenaline and fear and a hint of embarrassment at being so _close_ that he can feel Roman’s fucking _breath on his neck_ and a twinge of heat deep in his stomach.

“So,” Roman said, and swallowed audibly. “Should I try slamming against the door?”

Virgil shuffled aside as much as he could, stepping on a pile of what’s probably dirty laundry and trying not to trip directly into Roman as he wobbled for balance. “Sure.”

_Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk._

That repeated a few times, before there was a voice outside the room. “Roman? Virgil?”

“Hey, Logan,” Virgil called, trying not to wince.

“Your closet _again?!”_ Logan said, exasperated.

“It’s not like we _chose_ this, Ego-ist Spengler!” Roman snapped. 

There’s the sound of someone trying the handle, then someone more enthusiastically trying the handle, then a huff.

“It’s stuck.”

“Yeah, Logan, we _know_,” Virgil said. 

“Is that them?” Patton’s voice sounded.

“Yeah, it’s us,” Roman said.

“I think I’m going to go find some kind of toolkit,” Logan said decisively. “Virgil, do you have one?”

“One, a toolkit won’t work against a _ghost,_ two, no, what do I look like, Bob the Builder?” Virgil snapped, and Roman snorted—he must have been equally pressed against the other wall of the closet, so that they’re as far apart as they can be.

Logan sighed, irritated, and said, “Well, you should have one. Do either of you have your phones?”

“I’ve got mine,” Roman said.

“Fine. Virgil, where are your keys?”

“You’re _leaving?!”_ Virgil demanded.

“Yes, to procure the tools necessary to _free you,”_ Logan said. 

“At this point, you should maybe take the door off the hinges, kiddo,” Patton suggested.

“That won’t _work_ against a—! You know what, fine, yeah, go, my keys are on the kitchen table.”

“Patton and I will be back shortly,” Logan announced. “I’ll ask your neighbors first and if we have to visit a store, I’ll text.” 

There’s the sound of footsteps, and the even more distant sound of Virgil’s front door closing.

There’s a long pause.

“Well,” Roman said. “We’re stuck here because of your homophobic ghost.”

“Gertrude. Yeah.”

Virgil tried to take in an even, good breath. 

“Hey, you okay?” Roman asked, all soft and concerned, and Virgil’s breath hitched as Roman’s hand gently closed around his wrist, fingers grazing delicately along the veins there, the soft skin above them, the tendons standing out stark, and if Virgil’s heart started racing a little faster, well. Roman wouldn’t be able to tell _why_.

“Fine, mostly,” Virgil said, a little strangled. “Just—y’know. Ghost in my apartment. Even stronger than I thought it was. And now I’m trapped in a closet” _with you, my unrequited maybe-love but I haven’t even gotten **close** to unparsing those feelings and I’m freaking out about enough right now_ “with no way to really get out, so. I’m just peachy.”

“Right, yeah,” Roman said, still soft, almost uncharacteristically so. “D’you want me to count, or—?”

“Just—“ Virgil said, and swallowed. “Distract me?”

And then Roman does something entirely unexpected.

Roman’s hand slid to cup his cheek, his hand sure and warm, and then he leaned in and pressed his lips against Virgil’s. Virgil’s mouth parted in surprise, and his eyes went wide, but he couldn’t _see_ in this stupidly dark closet, the strip of light from the door only enough to dully illuminate the gold stripes running down Roman’s jacket sleeve. Roman kissed him harder and it felt like _finally, finally,_ and Virgil was grateful now for only that little strip of light as they parted because he was sure he was gaping like an idiot.

“Like that?”

“I,” Virgil said, fumbling, “_I—”_

“I’ve liked you,” Roman said, stubborn and a little shaky, just around the edges. “I’ve _really_ liked you, for a really long time, and I think you—I think you maybe like me too, or at least I hope you do, and if you don’t this is so embarrassing and I’m gonna spontaneously combust and also never talk to you again just to save you from the—”

Roman couldn’t say anything more, though, because Virgil’s fumblingly grabbed at the lapels of Roman’s jackets and hauled him close, and just like that the kiss went from _finally_ to scorching, Roman biting hard at his lip and Virgil letting out a startled, gasping, _embarrassing_ noise at the sensation of it.

“Fuck that homophobic ghost,” Roman growled. “I’ll show _her—”_

“Roman, shut_ up,”_ Virgil said, sounding closer to a wheeze than anything, and then Roman did shut up, quite tidily and for quite a while, until—

There’s the sound of Virgil’s front door opening, and Virgil pulled back from Roman, who made an _incredibly_ ego-boosting noise when he did, and he attempted to quickly finger-comb his hair into some semblance of array.

Logan’s voice rang out, “One of your neighbors had a toolbox, so we were able to borrow it from them for a bit, if you’ll just—”

“Yeah, yeah, uh, sure,” Virgil called, avoiding the gruffness to his voice as he heard Roman similarly, hastily, making sure that he’s in _order,_ and then the door swings open.

“There we—“

Logan fell silent. Virgil cleared his throat, tugging at his hoodie, making sure it covers any part of his neck that Roman had touched, or kissed, or _bit_. Logan and Patton looked between them.

“You know, when someone experiences physiological responses related to fear,” Logan said, sounding absolutely exhausted, “people often mislabel those responses, it’s called misattribution of arousal—”

Virgil, cheeks burning, leaned down to grab a t-shirt at random, balling it up and hurling it at Logan.

“It’s not _just,” _Virgil began heatedly, but then he saw _Patton_ beaming, all gleeful and delighted, and talking about _arousal_ in front of Patton is a bit like talking about arousal _in church_ or something equally awkward and slightly taboo.

“You two,” Patton said, “_you two—”_

“Yeah, we—yeah,” Roman said, and looked to Virgil. “I mean, we—we are. Yeah?”

“—yeah,” Virgil said, and couldn’t stop his grin. “_Yeah.”_

“How romantic,” Logan said dryly.

Identically, Roman and Virgil reach out and shove at Logan’s shoulder.


End file.
